


The Lake District

by AnalystProductions



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Did I Mention Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Lake District, Oneshot, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh the Lake District. It's lovely, let's definitely go there. We can eat scones. They do great scones in 1927." </p>
<p>- In which the Doctor takes Clara up on her brilliant suggestion, and the pair go to the Lake District in 1927. Cue an entire day spent riding bicycles in the woods and eating scones by the Lake. </p>
<p>Complete and utter Fluff. Oneshot. [Whouffle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lake District

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write Clara/Eleven. Only I haven't had much time to write, so I thought I'd post this small cute, fluffy fic for you all to enjoy.
> 
> I am working on some more but probably won't transpire until exam period is over!
> 
> This is PURE fluff. Fluffy, fluff, fluff.

As the TARDIS doors swing open, they’re greeted by an endless stretch of woodland that is notoriously British. Aside from the occasional youthful leafy deciduous and the old giants, with thick trunks and curiously twisting branches, the trees are tall and thin. Ferns cover the ground, varying in colour from verdant green to a golden-brown hue (like a Soufflé). The sun peeks through the gaps, embellishing the shadows on the ground. It’s quiet here. Only the ancient tune of Mother Earth and her sentient beings resonate in the fresh, crisp air around them.

Clara takes a step out of the bigger-on-the-inside blue box; the leaves crackle beneath her feet. Silently, her eyes flicker over the enchanting woodland. Seconds later, the Doctor bounds out the TARDIS, humming absently to himself. He turns to her with an elaborate twirl; proud smile on his face because for _once_ he’s actually taken them to the right place _and_ at the right time. He half-expects her to leap into his arms and tell him he’s absolutely _brilliant._ Whilst that may do wonders for his ego, this _is_ Clara Oswald and she’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she shoots him an incredulous look. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“The _Lake District_?”

For a moment, the Doctor’s cheery smile wilts. His body slumps against the TARDIS’ frame. There’s a surplus amount of _amusement_ in her voice, enough for disappointment and embarrassment completely overrule him. He feels two hundred years younger, allowing his emotions to control him with ease, and surface in such an open way. Well. This is unexpected. Reluctantly, he turns back to her unreadable expression. _She_ was the one who had suggested Lake District all those months ago at Akhaten! Not him, the idea had been planted by _her._ Little Merry had heard it too and he was _certain_ she would vouch for him if he went back and asked-

“Doctor!” It’s only now he realises he’s been talking out loud, revealing his thoughts to her. Somehow she is smirking and gaping at the same time, wide eyes sparkling with something more than the sunlight. 

“I’m not disappointed.” She’s laughing; it gives her words an extra spring. The Doctor smiles sheepishly and immediately feels that odd embarrassment arise inside again – really what _is it_ about this girl? Countless times he feels like a blundering clown tripping over his own feet, a flummoxed fish out of water flailing helplessly, a total _fool_ with two racing hearts. Linking their arms together, she gently tugs him forwards, detaching him from his internal monologue.

“I’m just _surprised_ that you remembered!” her lips are curled upwards enigmatically, eyes twinkling as they focus on the horizon.

He knows she’s a little impressed by this, even though she’ll never admit it. Stubborn, adorable Clara. He chuckles. Immeasurable fondness smothers him as they stroll leisurely through the woodland. Untangling their arms he reaches for her hand, kissing it for good measure before clasping it with his own.

“Oh Clara,” he mutters softly. “I’ll _always_ remember.”

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

"Geronimo!" The Doctor shouts childishly, a wide grin splayed over his glowing face as he cycles down one of the surrounding dips in the terrain. It’s not as steep as it looks, but he yells all the way down anyway. His voice echoes through the quiet clearing they’ve stumbled across. Clara rolls her eyes at the sight of the charming man, following him. It’s bit of a bumpy ride, but she’s not going to pretend that she doesn’t _love_ this bicycle with its slender white wheels and red coat of paint. It’s so vintage, even if it’s _not_ vintage yet,because they are actually in 1927 and this is the norm.

Panting, the Doctor cycles up to her when she reaches the bottom. There’s a hint of mischief and silliness sprouting from his eyes and Clara can pretend all she wants but she does truly enjoy seeing him like this. There’s no worry, no poignant sadness, no darkness – just the Doctor and his wide toothy smile. She wishes he could be this way more often; time-travelling was surprisingly draining, terrifying and at times dismal. He leans in towards her contentedly.

“Race you!”

Raising an eyebrow Clara smirks, gripping the handlebars tighter for good measure.

"You sure?" She teases. "They don't call me Oswin for nothing you know."

_You could just call me Oswin, seeing as that’s my name._

_Oswald for the win – Oswin!_

Too enamoured by the glorious day, the Doctor shrugs off her comment. He can sit and mull over her ghosts, her _mystery_ another time. Right now, he's intent on spending the day with this Clara, his Clara.... No. Just Clara. Clara Oswald, who has proved to him many times that she _is_ her own person. Right now, he believes it more than ever. He assures himself that he is going to make the most of the day. There’s the remarkable lack of danger, yet still the presence of insatiable excitement. Not responding to her words, he pushes off and begins to peddle rapidly.

"Oi! That's _not_ fair!" She yells, leaping into action.

The Doctor laughs from up ahead. Only he finds that he isn't ahead for much longer and Clara slows her pace to ride alongside him. He jumps in surprise, the bicycle wavering side to side before regaining balance.

"I have two hearts, you shouldn't be able to catch up with me." He says, almost in amazement. He averts his eyes to look where he’s going, then gazes back at her. Her cheeks are tinted pink, a rosy glow to her skin.

"Well, you're not really sticking to the conventional method of cycling _are you_?"

Clara gestures down to his legs which are outstretched in midair, nowhere near the peddles that are rolling around on their own accord. He looks ridiculous, comical, and somehow _still_ totally delightful. Narrowing his eyes, the Doctor scoffs at her words lightly. He peddles a few more time to gain momentum before flailing his legs out once more. Clara stifles a laugh.

"This is the best way to do it Clara _, everybody_ knows that!" Pause. He glances over his shoulder to her as his bike comes to a gradual halt. "Come on, try it."

Clara cycles straight past him, shaking her head firmly. The trees have parted here, allowing a wide, long trail for them to cycle down. A small stream trickles to the side of the trail serenely.

"No,” she chants, voice carrying in the tranquil forest. Her nose crinkles cutely when he does _it_ again. “I am not cycling likethat it’s plain _weird_!"

Sighing, the Doctor catches up to her, deliberately cutting her up with his own bicycle. Her glare goes unnoticed, his lips upturned. He does it again playfully, Clara huffs in frustration but the smile tickling her lips suggests she’s not annoyed at all.

“No it’s not weird.” He adjusts his bowtie, showing off with only one hand on the bars. “It’s _cool.”_  No response. Then. “Just once _please.”_ It’s so fun she _has_ to try it. Clara appears uninterested. And then. “Come _on_ Clara don’t be such an…Oswald.”

Slowing down, she purses her lips tightly and her features sharpen.

“Chin, did you just use my _name_ as an insult?”

“Absolutely _not,_ you misheard me. Must be the British wind racing through your ears.”  It would have been kind of convincing if he wasn’t stuttering the whole way through the sentence. Lightly, she punches his arm. The Doctor yelps dramatically, clutching his arm.

“ _Clara!_ That is very unbecoming of a young lady.”

Apathetic to the statement, Clara shrugs. Her eyes study the horizon in which a large crystal blue lake sits. It’s truly _beautiful._ She’s only been to the Lake District once. It was very different then, in her time. Certain areas were fenced off and the woodland was more disturbed and populated with people. She prefers it in _this_ time, it’s easy to melt into the surroundings and indulge in the stillness, the lazy unraveling of time. Smiling, she wonders if time _can_ unravel in different ways, with different moods and natures. Could time have a bad day and simply _storm_ through the hours or shred apart seconds? Or could it dwell in its favourite moments?

She’s about to ask when she notices the Doctor _still_ hasn’t caught up with her, he’s truly acting like an old man now. She turns around _hoping_ he isn’t fussing about his arm. Instead, she finds him nursing a graze on his cheek, probably induced by scraping past a tree branch too fast. Cycling back over to him, Clara groans and prods him again.

“Don’t be such a _baby!”_

“It _hurts!”_

“You must have a _really low_ pain threshold.” Titling her head coyly she smirks cheekily at him. A series of mocking retorts escape her plump, full lips. “Shall I take you back to the TARDIS for a plaster?” and “do you want me to kiss it better?”

Before he can answer she takes it upon herself to decide the solution and presses her lips chastely against his cheek. Flustered, the Doctor feels his cheeks turn a little crimson, his clammy hands holding onto the handlebars tighter. It’s just a kiss, _on the cheek._ It really shouldn’t affect him in this way. But it does. To his relief she doesn’t appear to realise, smugly cycling away from the baffled Doctor. He touches his cheek absently. When she glances over her shoulder, he propels his arm into the air clumsily, so it’s _anywhere but_ the place she’s just kissed. Grinning, she focuses on the landscape ahead and mimics his cycling technique. Her legs are dangling in the air.

“Geronimo!” she chants.

The Doctor beams in glee and joins her. They cycle like that for another half hour, not caring for the deranged looks they get as they enter a busier part of the forest closer to the lake.  As long as the Doctor has Clara, and she is safe, nothing else really matters.

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

A contented smile dusts Clara’s face once she has finished chewing. The Doctor appears to be overjoyed by her reaction and leans in over the small table they’ve claimed which has a staggering view of the wonderful lake. Despite the amount of people here, it’s still quiet. Everyone appears comfortable in their surrounding area. There are couples sitting by the lake in the distance, dangling their legs into the cold water, a man and a young boy are fishing, a few others collected on boats across the water or sprinkled across the grass.

“Didn’t I _tell you_ they do good scones in 1927?” The Doctor says with a wide smile. Excitedly, he reaches across for one on the plate between them, completely smothering it with jam – raspberry jam of course - because strawberry would be _unacceptable._ Clara watches him fondly for a second before forming words.

“They’re _exquisite.”_  The Doctor hums in approval at her choice of words between chewing, and Clara realises that she has never actually _seen_ the Doctor eat _anything…ever._ Perplexed, she narrows her eyes at him. _Does_ he eat? The Doctor gazes over to her and barks out a laugh. Somehow he knows exactly what’s going on in her little, yet clever, brain.

“Yes Clara I _do_ eat. Just don’t normally have time on our escapades so I eat when I need to. Fish Fingers and custard are my _favourite,_ but these scones,” he glances down at the half-eaten scone in his hand. “they’re a close second.”

“…Fish fingers and _custard_?” she asks speculatively, titling her head in bewilderment whilst reaching for the penultimate scone. All attempts to try and figure out what on earth that tastes like fail. The combination of flavours, of _fish fingers and custard_ , is so totally _odd_ and so _him_ that it’s almost implausible. Rubbing his hands together, the Doctor’s eyes light up, if they could anymore that is.

“Oh it’s _brilliant._ You’ll have to try it.”

“Only if you try a Soufflé in return.” She absently adds with a cheerful tone.

Raising her eyebrows, she takes a bite of her scone and appreciates the light, fruity texture of it. He’s right. She’s never tasted scones this good. 1927 clearly is the landmark for scones, although she’s certain it probably has other great achievements too. Her expression turns pensive as she tries to recall history lessons at school and anything of importance in 1927. She doesn’t notice the Doctor is looking at her quietly; with an unfamiliar uncertainty normally he exudes when his back is turned to her.

  
**x-x-x-x-x-x-x**  

He remains oddly quiet as they walk through the woodland back to where the TARDIS was parked. Clara just assumes he’s a little exhausted from the day, or needs to depart from the static of being in one place. It gives her time to admire the orange hue creeping over the horizon, adding a wondrous glow to the forest. It really was beautiful here. They should come back sometime, when they needed a break from the hustle and bustle of time. Reaching the TARDIS, the Doctor leans against the door before opening it, forcing her to stop in front of him. He looks down at her.

“Have you had a good day?”

The question is so forward and to the point it startles Clara. It’s something he usually doesn’t ask. It reminds her of that time a few weeks ago when he asked her on a scale of 1 to 10 how safe she felt with him. Finishing her scone, she studies his expression. He looks a little insecure, _worried_ of all things. Is he worried that she hasn’t? Or is something bigger accumulating behind those ancient, endless eyes? She’s unsure what kind of answer he’s searching for. A simple yes would suffice normally, but this isn’t a normal question, this is a question that’s bigger-on-the-inside. Searching his eyes curiously, she finds a hint of poignancy, and understands.

Have you had a good day? _Are you bored of travelling with me? Will you want to leave soon?_ But not only that it’s a series of _Are you bored of me?_ and _Stay with me._ Not that she ever needs to be asked to stay. Nonetheless, once identifying this, Clara’s eyes soften and she meets his eyes.

“The best,” a smile touches her delicate lips. “I _always_ have the best days with you.”

That appears enough confirmation for the Doctor. Unable to control his own smile, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. It’s a delicate golden key, not at all what she expects to see. The patterns on the bow are intrinsically alien and beautiful. There are odd spirals and somehow infinite patterns etched into the metal. The tip fans out to one side of the key, with another peculiar pattern leading to a set of ridges that correlate with a door. Clara wonders what this key is for; it looks ancient. She’s never seen the Doctor use a key for anything before. Leaning in closer, she notices a few letters scratched dexterously into the shank. Her eyes dart up to his instantly.

“I wanted to give it to you, after the first day, but-” his words trail off and he restrains himself from telling her. The memories of Victorian Clara flash through his mind. It had been in those few seconds after handing her the key that she had been cruelly snatched from the TARDIS and thrown to her death. He deliberates over his next choice of words but is unable to finish them. The last time he let someone in, they left him; Oswin Oswald, Amelia Pond, Rory Williams, Clara.

Unexpectedly, Clara closes his palm and kisses it tenderly.

“Chinboy, you don’t need to give me _anything,”_ because this whole exchange had just proved the extent of their relationship and how much he cared for her. Her heart is racing and she thinks that she’s going to jump up into his arms and do something that she probably will regret later like kiss him and _not on his chin_ if she doesn’t turn away now. The Doctor appears completely stunned by her response, holding the TARDIS key - _his_ key, not a copy or a spare- in his hands tightly. The refusal didn’t crush him; it enlightened him. Clara never ceases to amaze him. She truly understood what it was without a word traded, and had reacted in a completely unique way.

Comically, she shrugs and slips past him into the TARDIS. His eyes follow her.

“Just give me the whole of time and space.”

She says it so casually that the Doctor’s dark anxiety floats away lightly until all he’s left with is the fluttery, buoyancy he had in the beginning. He spins around into the TARDIS, closing the door energetically behind him. Bounding up the steps to the main console, he grins. There’s an element of overconfidence behind that grin, but it’s still endearing as ever.

“Now _that,_ I can do!"

“Then _what_ are you waiting for!” Clara all-but shouts, purposefully feeding his happy demeanour. Dramatically, he flicks a switch and the TARDIS hums in response beside her. Leaning over, he kisses her forehead. She smiles up at him. Although her words are a rhetorical question, there’s still an answer that doesn’t reach his mouth.

What has he been waiting for? Does it _really_ need saying?

Hope dances through his eyes as he gazes over to her across the console. Perhaps, just this one time, it does.

“You."


End file.
